Beauty is a Butterfly
by Crimson Gold
Summary: Lucius Malfoy is cold and withdrawn, but nonetheless strong and feeding on his hate. His wife is dead, and his slightly insane mind has decided the youngest Weasley is the executioner. Will bold ugliness overule fragile beauty? Chapter 4 up! And please R
1. Default Chapter

Lucius Malfoy woke up to the sound of dripping. He slowly sat up in bed, carefully making sure not to wake the sleeping form next to him. He disentangled himself from the silver silk bed sheets and reached over to the mahogany ornately carved chair beside him where his silk black robe lay. He draped it loosely over his shoulders and followed the sound of dripping.

His towering figure blocked out the moonlight peeking in from the cracks in the curtains as he crept across the richly carpeted floor and slowly eased open the bathroom door. Inside he passed the two deep, silver sinks and the inviting Jacuzzi tub. He would have to soak in it later, he thought to himself. He was feeling sore.

At last he came to the shower stall. His hand reached up to grasp the black curtain. A small window spilled silver moonlight on the silver serpent ring. He pulled back the curtain.

And found nothing.

He sighed and bent down to twist the taps completely off. The dripping stopped. Gods, he was getting paranoid. He headed back to his rooms, tying the bathrobe closed as he went. He decided not to go back to bed, and headed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He padded through his manor, his hair glinting as he flicked at back from his face. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones stood out starkly against the narrowed, dark shape of his eyes. On a sudden whim, he turned a sharp left into his study.

The tall man strode elegantly across the room and opened one of the drawers in his desk. Inside he poked around the contents until he found a small matchbox. He swiftly lit the match and set alight one of the nearby candles. Lifting the candleholder, he proceeded to look through the many thick volumes containing various forms of dark magic. His eye strayed on one particular book titled "Necromancy: Death is only the Beginning". One pale slender finger reached up to stroke the worn, black spine of the book. He picked it up and dusted it off.

Lucius walked back over to the desk and set down the book, brushing off the dust carefully so as not to rip the fragile pages. He slowly opened it, the candlelight spilling eerie shadows onto the old texts. Skimming through it, he found what he needed and tucked the book under the folds of his robe.

He strode purposefully back through the hallways of his manor. He passed various objects that were hand-carved sculptures, original paintings and crystal rooms. All reminders of his wealth and power.

Ah, power. He greedily fed on it, letting it seep into his blood and nourish him. It was what got him through his day better than any stimulating drink, and the night better than the most talented of whores. And Voldemort had brought power.

For years he had drunk from the pools of power the Dark Lord gave him. He believed himself invincible. But after Voldemort crumbled, all was gone. He had been the tallest, most imposing, grandest of towers, and then one day it had all come crashing to the ground. Voldemort was dead. All the other Death Eaters were dead. Narcissa was dead. His beloved wife. He had once fed on power. Now he nourished himself with revenge.

The tower may have fallen, but the blocks were still there. And he rebuilt it. Had but every scrap back into place. Except for the capstone. His darling Narcissa.

She had been the perfect wife. Gorgeous and sophisticated, born and raised in a world of aristocracy and power. She acted stupid when required, and looked up to no one but him. Not even Voldemort could take that away from him. Until he killed her.

Funny how when something bad happens, we tend to turn away from reality and our brains warp themselves around the facts until your trying to see through a grey mist and the person who gets blamed had nothing to do with what happened. And so it was with Lucius. Yes, Voldemort had performed the spell which allowed her last breath to slip from her lips. But it wasn't his idea. No, someone else had sliced the last thread. And that someone was Ginevra Weasley.

The youngest Weasley was she who had fed the Dark Lord with lies of the Malfoy family. Who had said the Mrs. Malfoy was a spy and planning to kill them all. She was the one who had planted the seed in Voldemort's mind and watched while it grew, then cackled with glee as it blossomed.

Now, why would the young red-head want his wife dead. Why, to get back at Draco, of course. The Malfoy heir did not choose his women well. After fucking the young girl senseless, he left her heartbroken. Emotional Gryffindors. But did she even consider that killing Narcissa would ruin HIS life too? NO! She must die.

But Lucius wanted to do this carefully. He eventually reached the tall glass doors that led to the gardens and stepped outside onto the stone-paved pathways in the warm July night air. He walked slowly, pausing to admire several flowers. He finally reached his wife's tombstone. On it was engraved:

Narcissa Malfoy

Loved Mother and Wife

Creeping up a leaf

Fluttering delicate wings

Colourful flashes mixed

Among nature's bindings

Beauty is a butterfly

Standing in the dew

Mindful of the blood

That stealthily seeps through

If you could capture a corner

Of the world's beauty

A quivering butterfly

Represents what that could be.

He knelt in front of the stone, entwined in rose thorns and blossoms, a white angel standing above it looking at the moon. His eyes were set hard as he slowly looked back down and opened the book before him.

"I will avenge you, my beautiful butterfly," he whispered.


	2. Resemblances and Green Paint

A/N : This chapter is dedicated to my beautiful reviewer DarkerBella you have given me the little boost I needed to keep on going! I even added in a little idea of yours...you know, the one which involved a rather – erm – _revealing _look for the sinister Malfoy...

Oh, and more on the Necromancy in later chapters. If anything seems too confusing, please tell me, I'm writing this at 2:00am with a sucky keyboard, so I would appreciate your input!

Lucius watched her, noting every imperfection, every tangle, every wrinkle. He watched, his piercing gaze burning a hole through the glass. The delicate mirror reflected the unbecoming, plain face of Ginevra Weasley, thoughtfully pulling clumps out of some pitiful-looking grass, untamed and about eight inches long. Her orange-red hair was pulled back in a messy braid, her pale lashes throwing spider-like shadows across her eyelids in the eerie sunset light. His lip curled into a sneer, his mind not able to grasp how this, _this_, a young girl, not even a woman, ugly in every aspect of the word, had corrupted his son and overthrown his life.

Even as his mind analyzed this thought, a new one pushed through. He carefully set down the mirror, the plain white gold glittering in the dim light. He picked up a glass of champagne and swirled it thoughtfully, wondering. Once again, on a sudden impulse, he turned and strode out of the small garden square where he had been enjoying the view of the setting sun, much like the not so tasteful view of the youngest Weasley.

He strode up the garden paths, his silver cloak brushing against flowers, bushes and statues of Greek Gods. He threw open the tall, elegant French doors and paused, the whispery curtains curling around him, the light surrounding his tall frame in splendor, his outline stark against the darkness of the manor.

He turned sharply to his left, darkness enveloping him, his being sucking in all sound, absorbing all light. He once again entered his study and lit a tall, twisting candle. His ringed fingers grasped it as he once again thumbed through the volumes...this time in the Muggle section.

Ah yes...exactly where he had thought it would be. He carefully put the book down, and headed out of the room. Lucius was a man of extreme patience and self-control. It would be best to wait until after he had washed up and eaten dinner.

Lucius stood in the middle of the vast room, eyes looking upwards at the cathedral-high peaked ceiling with the massive crystal chandelier dangling down, completely naked. His strong body slowly heaved up, then down as he quietly breathed in and out. The platinum hair tumbled down his back. A few braids by the left ear dangled slightly apart from the rest. His red mouth was slightly open and his clear ice-blue eyes were wide open.

His strong arms lifted a plain wooden bucket, and he promptly poured the icy water over his body, in the middle of his bedroom floor. He flicked his hair back, and threw the bucket to the side, ignoring the thump it made as it bounced off the wall. He was awake, and very alert.

He slowly brought his head level, and stealthily moved around the room, carefully slipping on the silver robe and swiftly skimming through the door in one sleek movement. He smiled a cat-like smile, and proceeded down the hall to his study.

Ginny screamed in pure delight, rays of sunshine dancing across her joyfully lit face as she ducked behind one of the twisted lilac bushes. Her slippery hair had untangled itself from the messy braid and now fell unlady-like over her shoulders and face. Her sparkling eyes danced as they peaked through the thick foliage as she waited with baited breath.

Thump!

A huge glob of pale green paint splattered onto her skinny frame. The old t-shirt tied she wore was tied in a knot over her naval and the worn jeans were both completely soaked from the huge amount of paint spread over them. The sound of two teenage boys shreiking like a couple of drunk nifflers out on the grass a few feet away was the only thing heard as she slowly turned, hands on hips, mouth in a pouty grimace.

"Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter, you are in very, very big trouble as soon as mum finds out that you wasted her gorgeous new living-room paint all over your poor, defenseless sister," she said sternly, trying to look severe.

Ron just snorted. "Yeah right, it's not like you started the whole business when you poured the white trim all over poor, defenseless Harry's trousers." He chuckled to himself, remembering the incident fondly.

Ginny made as if to ignore him, them promptly dumped the rest of the paint over his smirking head.

Lucius raised his eyebrows at the seen before him, wondering how on earth someone could actually enjoy being completely soaked in green paint. He shook his head, and resumed making comparisons between Ginevra and the woman he was reading about.

He was sitting, once again, in the study, the mirror beside him, the book in front of him.

The woman and Ginevra were extremely alike. They both had previous lovers, and both were extremely plain and unbecoming. They both had a taste for the darker side, but also enjoyed the pretty and fluffy things in life. They also, or in Ginevra's case will, end up at the executioner's axe.

"My dear," said Lucius softly, stroking the thick pages, "I must say, you have a way with men that only one other woman with the same looks as you ever had. A manner. A...manipulatively bitchy side. You, my lovely, are exactly like the dear deceased Queen Anne Boleyn."


	3. Remembering the Past

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Adrenalina, for giving me the idea for the main part of this chapter. Much more of Draco in this one. I thought about making him dead, but where's the fun in that? Also, any really obvious mistakes or _faux pas_, please point them out to me. Thank-you, and please R&R if you have any ideas or criticism. Please no flames, unless you believe I really deserve and I will never write ever again...just kidding, but please NO FLAMES!! **

Anne Boleyn was far from beautiful. She had a plain face and dressed in dramatic blacks and whites, her dark hair flowing wildly. But her air of secretiveness, of mystery, captivated all men, bound them, until even the king was wrapped around her little finger. She would be gentle to all, and then turn cold overnight as the dew does on grass. Some loved her, but most hated her. They hated her so much they decapitated her.

Lucius knew all this. He had familiarized himself with the story of King Henry VIII to amuse himself as a young boy. She and Ginevra most definitely had similar qualities. The only thing was to figure out a way to turn them against her. The way they had with Anne.

The tall man stroked his chin, thinking. Anne had been killed because her wedding was in shreds and everyone was accusing her of witchcraft. But those days were over.

A thought struck his mind; beating it so hard he fell over and knocked over the candle. It went flying onto the deep green carpet, which immediately erupted in flames. Lucius hastily extinguished them, drawing his wand from the folds of his robes. He attempted to still his shaking hands, but only managed to drop the wand. He slowly turned his face to the small window facing across from his desk, his eyes narrowing. It could work.

Lucius went back to the bookshelf, this time picking out several books and carrying them easily out the door, heading back to his wife's grave. He wasn't going to repeat history. He was going to rewrite it.

The soothing music and silken sheets did nothing to calm Draco's mind. He tossed and turned, his medium-length silver hair sticking to his forehead. He eventually got up and walked quietly down the hall to his kitchen where he got out one of the crystal glasses and poured himself some ice-cold water. He took a few sips, then dumped the rest out, instead reaching for a bottle of firewhiskey.

He drank it straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning it's way down his throat. He leaned against the cool wall, and thought back to the past three years.

Three years earlier...

Little Ginevra Weasley had been only fifteen when she had captivated him. Perhaps it was the air of tainted innocence that lay around her that drew him to her...he did not know. All he knew was that one day during lunch, he had looked across the hall and seen her, chin on hand, soft brown eyes dreamily gazing upwards, orange-red hair pulled back in a tangled bun that allowed all to admire the pale skin and rosy ness of her cheeks, cheap imitation silver hoop earrings and long neck.

That image had stayed with him forever. For Draco knew that though not beautiful, the real beauty beneath was what he desired. The pools of swirling chocolate that were her eyes held such depth, such purity.

He could remember what she had been wearing that day. A light blue wool sweater and worn, dark jeans. A silver cross dangled from her neck and silver bangles glittered at her wrists. He had taken note of this, and for her birthday had sent her a beautiful silver ring that was entwined about a large white crystal. She had loved it, though did not know who was its giver.

He had spent all of first term trying to get her attention. It was hard, for though she had few friends, he did not want to be noticed – he still retained some of his Slytherin pride. Yet he pursued her, until one lucky day. Well...lucky for him.

It was right before the Christmas holidays. The Hogwarts grounds were blanketed in pure, virgin snow, not yet disturbed by the hundreds of students. The sky was clear, and he watched her from the West Tower, one of his favourite places to hide. There she was, sitting by the lake on a boulder reading. He remembered thinking how odd to be reading out in the snow when you could be cozy by the fire. But then, the youngest Weasley had always preferred to be cold and alone then warm and crowded. Perhaps it was because ever since she was born she had wanted to be like someone else, than one day had decided to simply break free from that trap.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, an owl swooped over her, startling them both. She had looked up, her eyes sparking, the crimson and gold scarf she was wearing starting to slip off her shoulder. She had taken the offered letter, and studied it carefully. When she was done, she took one step, then fainted clean away.

Draco, alarmed, had ran to her, upsetting the snow, out of breath by the time he got to her. The air around them was crisp, and he could see a faint stream of air float from her mouth. He sighed in relief, then did a quick levitation spell and led her into the castle.

He tried to figure out somewhere they could both stay, and eventually decided on the room of Requirement. He crept through the castle, sometimes ducking into closets or behind stairs if someone came by, holding the limp girl close to him. He would take in her scent of lilacs and vanilla, his hands feeling the skinny bones in her back. He wondered why she was so thin.

They eventually came to the room, and he set her down on the small bed he found there and tended to her with the medical kit on the bedside table. He bathed her forehead with a cool cloth, and reached over her to see the letter still gripped in her hand. He scanned it curiously, then his eyes widened with shock. He could only really focus on a few words. Yesterday. Ministry. Arthur Weasley. Dead.

**So there's chapter 3! I know its short, but I will update more often this way. Next chapter will have the whole Ginny betraying Draco...or at least that's what Lucius thinks. I will try to make the next one longer. Really, I will! Just give me time...**


	4. Arabian Dancer and Chocolate Strawberrie...

**A/N I know, I know. Not very long again. But I really like this chapter. You get a clearer view on Draco, with lots of sexiness and depression. You even get some hotness from another certain Weasley...**

Lucius sighed, strands of light hair falling out of the braid it was held in. His hand rested on the book in front of him, tired eyes seeking, always seeking. He owned an entire library on the Dark Arts, why wasn't there one book about time travel?

His mind suddenly poked at something, hidden in the back...ah yes! The ministry...they held the books that he needed. Lucius no longer got out very often but...for this occasion, he was going to look his finest.

Draco lounged back in the plush green chair, bringing a cigarette to his mouth and inhaling deeply. As his hand moved, the many silver bracelets and emerald rings clinked and rattled. He leaned back further, the two other occupants giggling girlishly. His other hand distractedly stroked one whore's hair, but his mind was far away.

He was at a party – his party, actually. Blaise, his old school friend, had decided to disturb the young Malfoy's life of melancholy and forcibly push him into the arms of over two hundred guests. Literally.

He sighed, and slightly pushed away the manicured hand that had started to creep its way up his open black silk shirt. He got up from his nest of pillows and walked over to his friend, his slightly drunk mind trying to focus on the task at hand.

You want to thank him for the party, he kept on telling himself. Thank him...

He stopped in mid-thought, his eyes glazed over as he looked at one particular couple by one of the chocolate fountains. An elegant, dark woman in a dark blue dress hung onto the arm of a tall, red-haired man with a fang earring. Draco took out his wand and muttered _soberious_. His mind immediately cleared – he no longer wanted a foggy brain.

"Bill Weasley," he said, lounging against a tall marble pillar. "What a pleasant surprise." He meant it, too. The eldest Weasley had proved himself hard-working, courageous, brilliant in Ancient magic and had a sense of style to boot. Though he didn't luxuriate in fine silks and cashmere on a daily basis, he was definitely working himself up there.

"Why, Draco! The same, I'm sure," said the tall man, gesturing with his right arm, the baggy folds of his blue shirt swaying. "May I present Christine LaFontaine. She's an auror who works for the Ministry of Magic in France." Christine smiled and nodded her head, dark curls twirling delicately.

"Enchanté, Mademoiselle," said Draco, bowing in turn. He poured himself a glass of champagne and gestured to the round, comfy chairs. "Bill, if I could have a word with you in private?"

"Of course," said the redhead. He spoke of few quiet words to Christine, who nodded and left.

The two men cut quite the picture, both sitting cross-legged across from each other on green chairs, both elegant and handsome. Bill wore a deep blue silky shirt with the top two buttons open to reveal a bare chest and large gold cross. His black pants and black dragon hide boots completed the outfit, both fairly expensive and new. His long hair was pulled back in a neat bun, his earring dangling.

Draco also wore silk, though his shirt was green and most of the top buttons were undone. The short strands of silver hair fell across his face. Silver chains glittered at his neck and leather boots glinted as he stared the other man in the eyes.

"How's Ginevra?" he asked bluntly.

Bill looked slightly surprised. "You sure don't beat around the bush, do you?" He leaned over to the glass table beside him and picked up a black cigarette. After lighting it, he switched his legs so that they were under him in a more comfortable position. He leaned back into the pillows, letting the smoke swirl around him. "She's doing fine. As fine as anyone can be, under the circumstances."

"My God, Bill, I feel so bad-"

"Don't," said Bill, gritting his teeth. "You're a good man, Draco, I saw that when you were with Ginny. But you're also stupid. It wasn't your fault, damnit!" He leaned forward. "Don't spend the rest of your days like this, Darco. Living off you father's money, save for whatever royalties that book of yours is bringing in, getting drunk, sleeping around with the cheapest prostitute you can find, while all the time being depressed and miserable...it's such a waste! You can do so much better.

Draco raised a pale eyebrow, but didn't comment. He, too, lit another cigarette and leaned back. A barely dressed girl wearing an Arabian dancer's costume flitted over to offer chocolate-dipped strawberries, but only Bill accepted, leaving the younger man to his thoughts.

"What can I do?" asked Draco quietly, eyes sad.

Bill looked at him calculatingly. "Go back to your fa-"

"No," hissed Draco. "He sits up there in his manor, the cruel Lord Malfoy, probably concocting his latest plan to overthrow the world! Hell, he wants me dead! I was never the son he wanted me to be."

The redhead sighed. "Draco, we all know Lucius wasn't all good and pure inside but – wait, let me finish. Too much wasn't finished up there. Too many ties left undone. Wait if you have to, but eventually you will have to face him." He leaned forward more so that they're faces were an inch apart. "Draco, you're still the only Malfoy heir."

Draco leaned back into the cushions. He trusted Bill and believed the eldest Weasley wise in the ways of the world. But he was just so afraid. "I can't," he said hoarsely.

"Can't," said Bill quietly, "or perhaps won't?" He also leaned back, stubbing his cigarette in a crystal ashtray beside him. "You need to get a grip on yourself, man."

Draco turned his face away.

"Face your fears for now, Draco. But for now...visit my sister."

The blonde's head snapped back up. "Gin-Ginevra?"

"Yes," said Bill solemnly. He peered into the young Malfoy's eyes. "You still love her."

It wasn't a question, merely a simple fact. And he was right. Draco was still in love with his beloved Ginevra. "What if...what if she hates me?"

"She doesn't"

"But...what if she doesn't love me?" asked Draco fearfully, tears weeling up in the normally stone cold eyes.

"There's only one way to find that out, isn't there?"

Bill stood up, taking another strawberry with him, and wandered over to where Christine was sitting watching a performance by some middle-east belly dancers. The tall man sat down beside her, slipping his calloused hand into hers. Draco watched them, his heart crying out in pain and wretchedness. He gently closed his eyes and remembered...

Three Years Earlier

Ginevra looked so beautiful in that dress. A deep blood red that made her hair looked a darker shade than it was, a simple silver cross on her neck and a swipe of lipstick colouring her full lips. Everyone in the room looked down their nose at her, the ladies thinking, "Why not put some mascara on those pale lashes? Why not dye that awful orange hair? Why not where a more becoming dress? Why not..." while the men thought, "Why not wear a lower cut? Why not act like an actual woman?"

Draco loved her though, and his heart would burst every time she turned her head to smile at him. He thought himself the luckiest man in the world. She turned back to the punch bowl, scooping up to spoonfuls into a crystal glass. He smiled. Ginevra didn't like wine, or champagne. She was innocent in that way, and he loved her for it.

She was his. His beautiful girl.

**Yay! So there's chapter 4! I would appreciate any feedback, constructive criticism or suggestions for upcoming chapters. A big thanks to DarkerBella and Adrenalina, my wonderful reviewers. **


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